Winning (10 page)

With Ivy on board, my top priority is making sure that Erin Hewett knows what's going on—not only that I've dropped out of the race, but that I'm throwing my full support behind Ivy. If I'm lucky, she'll take the news back to Frick and I'll kill two birds with one well-played stone.

Ivy
. It's almost pathetic how quickly she caved. All I had to do was drop a few tears and spew some rah-rah bullshit about how if she ran, she wouldn't be doing it for me or even herself but for all of the outcasts everywhere.
And she ate it up!

Now that I've made her want it, she'll do just about anything I tell her to. It's almost like having a second Sam, only this one doesn't want to jam her tongue down my throat.

Speaking of: I should give Original Sam a call. I'll need her help if I'm going to turn Ivy into someone worthy of a crown.

Our training starts tomorrow.

I don't get home until almost nine thirty; Natalie has already gone to bed. At least, I assume she's gone to bed. Her door is
locked and the blue light from a perpetually-on television set seeps out into the hallway. I knock softly, as I always do, to let her know I'm home. Sometimes I get a grunt in response. Mostly I get silence.

I prefer the grunt. At least then I know she's still alive.

Things weren't always this way with Natalie. While I've never really loved her—at least, not in the way you're supposed to love your mother—there was a time, years ago, that I admired the hell out of her. For one thing, Natalie was preternaturally gorgeous. She looked like a movie star marooned in the Midwest. Plus, her body was banging; years of pageant training left her with legs so cut they would make a grown man cry. And even though the gossipy moms in Spencer were convinced she'd gotten her boobs enlarged and her butt lifted, I can assure you that everything about Natalie is 100 percent au naturel.

But beyond her looks, Natalie had an absolutely brilliant mind. You wouldn't know it if you met her today, or even if you'd had a casual conversation with her back then. Most people pegged her as this vapid trophy wife, but it was all an act. My mother could walk into a room full of strangers and size them up in five minutes flat. She'd know in an instant not only whom she should be talking to but also
how
she should be talking to them. She knew exactly what to do to get whatever it was she wanted, whether it was information, attention, or things. In the peak of our training, right before my father died, I felt like I was finally starting to measure up. Like she had looked at me with that appraising look and liked what she'd seen.

That version of Natalie died with my father, though I don't understand why things got so dire. She was only thirty-four when he was killed in the collision, and she was still the most stunning creature ever to walk the streets of Spencer, Indiana. Natalie could've landed herself any one of a dozen eligible bachelors, men who had even more money and power than my dad. She must have really loved him. Or whatever version of love her iced-out heart could manage.

But instead of getting back out there, she crawled into the bottom of a bottle of bourbon and rotted into the erratic, pill-popping wretch she is today.

I knock again. The sound on the TV gets louder—Natalie's way of telling me to fuck off.

Why do I even bother?

I retreat to my own room and instinctively check my reflection in the full-length mirror. My makeup has held up remarkably well for such a long day, but my lips definitely need to be refreshed. I switch out the MLBB shade for MAC's Russian Red—Matt's favorite. Then I Snapchat him a kissy-face shot with the caption “Miss me? I miss you.” I shift positions slightly and take a second selfie, only this one I send to Sam.

Within thirty seconds she texts me a question mark. I reply:
OMG that was meant for Matt!!! Sorry!

She waits two full minutes before texting me back:
I figured

I let another two minutes go by before asking her if she has time for a quick chat. This time, she responds immediately:
Of course

It's late and I have a ton of homework I need to bang out before bed. I probably could've skipped the photoplay, but where's the fun in that?

On the phone, though, I'm all business. I give Sam a quick overview of the evening—high-level detail, nothing too specific. She asks a lot of questions, about where we went and what shops we hit and why we stayed out so long. Typically I'd have a higher threshold for Sam's neediness, but not tonight. Tonight I'm exhausted from the sheer effort I've expended pretending to like Ivy Proctor.

It's going to be a long three and a half weeks.

“Can't you pick me up on the way to Ivy's?” Sam whines when I tell her I can't give her a ride to school in the morning.

“No. I told you. I have to get there really early. I can't let the girl dress herself, now can I?”

“But I can help,” Sam says. “You know I'm great with the straightening iron.”

It's true. She's a whiz with them. But the last thing I want is Sam stepping in too soon, metaphorically peeing on the poor girl just to mark her territory.

“No,” I say more firmly. “I have to establish trust first. You'd just scare Ivy off.”

“How?” she demands.

“Why are you arguing with me?”

“Because I don't understand why you need to keep me and Ivy separated. I'm still a part of this plan, aren't I?”

“Samantha,” I say, “you're part of
every
plan. You know that.
Or, at least, you should know that by now.”

This, I think, will shut her up. Me reminding her of the overarching goal: to get us the hell out of Spencer. So what if I don't
actually
intend to take her with me? Or hell—maybe I'll want to, when the time comes. Maybe there's a usefulness to Samantha Schnitt that extends past graduation day.

“Please,” Sam says. “Don't shut me out.”

And with that, I've reached my limit.

“I'm hanging up now,” I say.

“Why?”

“Because you're acting like a jealous girlfriend!” I snap. “And I don't have time for that.”

I hang up before she can protest. When she calls me back, I silence the phone. It goes to voice mail but she doesn't leave a message.

I turn my phone off before plugging it in to charge. Then I dive into the pile of homework I need to plow through before I can turn in for the night.

The next day, I arrive at Ivy's house a full forty-five minutes before we have to leave for school. When I informed her that I would be doing this, she told me that she wasn't much of a morning person.

“Too bad,” I said. “We have less than a month until the election. Every day counts.”

Ivy lives in a flat, oatmeal-colored rancher that has about as much personality as her dull, doughy mother. It is freakishly
clean, despite the large, slobbering dog that typically has free rein, but, at my request, is currently incarcerated in the kitchen. No dust, no tacky clutter. And every wall is painted the same boring beige, which mirrors the color of the carpet.

Except Ivy's room. Her small, boxy space looks like an eggplant threw up all over it. There is dark, moody purple
everywhere
. A weirdly shiny bedspread. A shaggy area rug. Even her
dresser
has been purple-ized.

Purple is clearly Ivy's signature color.

The one exception to all of this aubergine is the curtains, which are a black velveteen and seemingly hung for the sole purpose of blocking out all natural light.

Maybe this is why Ivy dresses so poorly. It's too dark to see what she's putting on her body.

I look around the space trying to locate a light switch. There's a purple crystal chandelier that should theoretically throw off some light.

“Does that thing work?” I ask, pointing up at the fixture.

“Sure,” she says. “You might want to close your eyes for a sec while I turn it on.”

I don't heed Ivy's warning, but really wish I had. The minute she flips the switch, the room is positively flooded with bright light. Instinctively, I shield my eyes with my right arm.

“Told you,” she says, and I can practically hear her grinning. “That's why I never turn it on.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Instead, I say, “Closet. Where is it?”

She reaches toward the black-and-white poster of a big head—some sad-looking musician from decades before we were born—that is apparently masking the closet's door. She swings it open to reveal a double layer of clothes, almost all of which are black, with a few purple pieces thrown in for good measure.

“What. The.
Fuck
,” I say before I can stop myself. Ivy turns to face me, her eyes wide, as if she's never heard anyone drop the f-bomb before. How am I ever going to turn this hopeless case into Homecoming Queen material?

Then I remind myself:
You are Alexandra Miles. If anyone can turn Ivy Proctor into a star, it's you
.

“Ivy Proctor,” I say. “What are you doing? You are a reasonably attractive teenage girl. You're a little on the short side, but at least your body has the right proportions for your frame. And even though you try to hide them, I can tell you've got some decent boobage underneath those baggy tops you're always wearing.”

Ivy's pale face flames red. She crosses her arms over her chest as if to shield them from my sight.

I circle around her, examining Ivy from every possible angle. “Your hair—it's dyed, correct?”

“Yes.”

“It needs to be lightened. More of a golden brown than black. We can take care of that after school. And no more black eyeliner. At least, not so much you look like you're heading out on a hunting trip.”

She winces at that last bit. I take a deep breath and do my best to dial it down a few notches.

“Look,” I say in a soft, soothing voice. “I know you probably think all of this stuff is really shallow. And it is. Of course it is.

“But how you look—how you present yourself to the world—makes a statement. I'm judged all the time based on my choice of clothes or shoes or hair or makeup. And I'm not talking about the pageant world, either.”

“I know all this,” Ivy says. “I'm not
oblivious
.”

“Then
act
like it. I want to help you win, but I can't do it without a little help from you in return.”

I've spoon-fed Ivy a fair amount of bullshit this morning, but that last part—it's not entirely false. I mean, no one will actually get a chance to judge Ivy—but if they aren't rooting for her, she's got nowhere to fall.

“I'm in,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

“That's all I needed to hear.”

“Hey there, stranger.”

I turn to see her standing there. Erin Hewett. Clutching a stack of books to her chest like TV characters often do but real people never seem to. She is not wearing a skort. She is wearing a plaid miniskirt that is at least two inches shorter than our dress code dictates.

I guess you can get away with not following the dress code when you're the principal's niece.

We are standing just outside the main doors. I am waiting for Lexi to arrive with her new project (aka Ivy Proctor). I'm not entirely sure why Erin's here, though.

“Hi,” I say, because I don't know what else to say. Her bare legs are still California tan. She radiates sunshine, this girl, down to her strawberry-blond hair with little wisps bleached by many, many hours spent on the beach.

At least, this is what I imagine. I guess it's possible that she had it done in a salon.

I don't like thinking about Erin Hewett's legs, or her hair, or
any part about her, really.

“I feel like we haven't talked in for
ever
,” Erin says. “And there's been so much going on.”

“Like what?” I ask.

“Oh, you know,” she says. “I heard about Alex
andra
's big announcement yesterday. That's, like, really cool of her to do.”

I nod. “Yeah. Cool.”

I'm not great at making conversation. Especially not around super-cute girls that I'm not supposed to think are super-cute, or kind, or soft, or . . .

“Do you need something, Erin?” I blurt out.

“Nope,” she says. “Just thought I'd say hello.”

I keep thinking she's going to walk away but she doesn't. She's smiling at me. Is that part of her niceness, or is it something else?

Or do I just want it to be “something else”?

Behind her, about thirty feet away, Sloane Fahey is looking in our direction, skulking. Almost like she's watching us. That's the second time I've caught Sloane doing that in two days. Why?

I'm so consumed by what's happening in my immediate vicinity that I totally miss Lexi pulling into the parking lot. In fact, she and Ivy are already climbing the steps before I even register their presence.

Now there are four of us on the landing, a strange square of awkward.

“Hi, Ivy,” Erin says with an unnecessary wave. “Congrats on your nomination! You too, Alexandra—even though you've decided not to run.”

“It's true,” Lexi says. She links her arm through Ivy's. “I think there are much worthier candidates this year.”

Ivy looks horrified, both by her words and the whole arm-linking thing. I know it's just for show, but it irks me anyway.

“Agreed,” I say, only I cut a sidelong glance at Erin. The corners of Lexi's mouth turn down just enough for me to notice.

“I know it sounds corny,” Erin says, “but honestly? I don't care who actually wins. I just think it's amazing to be nominated! I was on Homecoming court at my old school, before we moved—”

“So we've heard,” Lexi interjects. “Such a shame you had to miss out on that.”

This doesn't faze Erin in the least. “Oh, it's fine. It's all a lot of phony pageantry anyway, isn't it?”

I suck in a sharp breath. “Phony pageantry”—that had to be directed at Lexi. Frick thinks pageants are frivolous; she's used that exact word with Lexi when Lexi's needed time off from school to compete. “Frivolous competitions don't warrant excused absences,” Frick once said. “Not even if they award small ‘scholarships' as incentive.” She even made the air quotes around “scholarships.” I can confirm this; I was there when it happened.

“Well, I see being voted Spencer High's Homecoming Queen as a huge honor,” Lexi says. “It means your peers have voted you the embodiment of school spirit.”

“Really?” Erin volleys back. “Because I kind of thought it was more about craving validation from your peers.”

“If you truly feel that way, Erin,” Lexi says, in a voice full of
venom, “maybe you should consider dropping out, too.”

Erin blinks in rapid succession. She's overstepped and she knows it. “I . . . I'm so sorry, Alexandra. I didn't mean to offend you. You either, Ivy.” Her green eyes well up. I can't get a read on whether she's being genuine or if, like Lexi, she's mastered the art of the fake crying.

I still can't get a read on her, period.

“Please excuse me,” Erin says, clutching her books even tighter. “I need to use the ladies'.” With that, she rushes off—but not toward the girls' bathroom. No, she heads straight into Frick's office.

Lexi withdraws her arm from Ivy's and turns to face the girl. “And that is what I mean by always being ‘on.' You can't say things like that without consequence. Now the whole school will know exactly how Erin feels about Homecoming.”

“How will the whole school know?” Ivy asks. “She only said it to us.”

“Because we'll let them know,” Lexi says. “They have a
right
to know. Spencer students take Homecoming seriously. I meant what I said—we see it as a real honor.”

This is fairly accurate. Even so, I can't help but say, “You didn't need to be so hard on her, Lexi.”

“Oh, please,” she says with a dismissive wave. “You can't possibly buy into that nice-girl act, can you?”

“She's been nothing but nice to me,” Ivy adds. “Even
before
my nomination.”

Lexi's eyes narrow in response. “Then maybe you should ask
Erin
to be your coach. Oh, wait, you can't.
Because she's your direct competition
.”

Ivy nods and murmurs an apology. She is such a docile puppy. No wonder Lexi has taken to her so quickly.

“If you want to be a winner,” Lexi says, “then stick with me. I promise I won't steer you wrong. Isn't that right, Sam?”

“Yes,” I say, because that is what I'm expected to say. I'm a docile puppy, too. Or at least, that's how Lexi thinks of me. And I let her, too.

I may not have much of a bark, but I have the bite.

That's
my
secret weapon.